


Scorched

by CurufinweAtarinke



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bittersweet, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, curvo is a good dad and tyelpe loves him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 16:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16706377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurufinweAtarinke/pseuds/CurufinweAtarinke
Summary: Celebrimbor, Curufin and Celegorm in the aftermath of Fëanor’s death.





	Scorched

His father has not left his tent in what must be days. Tyelpë cannot tell in this new world of darkness exactly how long, but he has eaten several meals since he last saw Atar. He wants badly to go in and see him, but he fears what he may find, so he lingers near the entrance to the tent like a wraith instead.

He desperately misses his mother. He is still so young, too young for this, and he had not realised that leaving with Atar would mean such a permanent severance from Amil. He has always been closer to his father, but now he misses her so much that it hurts.

Someone sits down heavily next to him, jolting him from his reverie.

“You alright, kid?” asks Uncle Turco, reaching out to warm his hands on the campfire. He looks down at Tyelpë and grimaces. “Stupid question I know, sorry.”

Tyelpë isn’t sure what expression he has on his face to cause such immediate concern, but if he looks half as miserable as he feels, he understands.

Uncle Turco sighs and reaches out with an arm to hug Tyelpë to his side. It’s a comfort Tyelpë desperately needs. His uncle uses scentless soap to aid the hunt, but smells generally of sweat and Huan. He smells like home.

“Is-“ Tyelpë feels the lump in his throat rise, and swallows. “Is Atar going to be alright?”

Uncle Turco sighs again. “I won’t lie to you, kid. He’s not doing great right now, and I’m worried about him.”

Tyelpë’s father had not taken the death of Tyelpë’s grandfather well. Tyelpë hasn’t been told the full details of his grandfather’s death, but he’s good at picking up information he isn’t supposed to hear, and he knows that Grandfather somehow... burned. And that Atar had not wanted to let go of the-the body.

Tyelpë again tries to swallow the treacherous lump in his throat, and hopes that Uncle Turco doesn’t notice that he’s about to cry. It’s too much, the loss of his grandfather, his mother and maybe even his father. He chokes back a sob.

“Oh, _Tyelpë_ ,” he hears, and his uncle is shifting to kneel and embrace him properly. He sobs into his chest, and feels his tears soak into his tunic.

His uncle holds him for a while, then carefully draws back to look at his face. “Would it help you feel better to see him?” Tyelpë nods, knowing that no matter what he sees in that tent, it will be better than his current thoughts.

Uncle Turco stands, motioning Tyelpë to too. He puts his hands on Tyelpë’s shoulders and looks him in the eye. “I’m going to be blunt with you, Tyelpë,” he says seriously, “Curvo’s pretty bad. He’s not in any mortal danger physically, but he’s pretty unresponsive right now. I had to-“ he pauses, swallowing, and his voice is rougher when he continues, “I had to pull him off the body. He wouldn’t let go.”

Tyelpë feels fresh tears welling and blinks them back. “I’m not a child, Uncle,” he says, sounding stronger than he feels. “I can handle this.”

His uncle’s gaze softens. “I suppose you aren’t, not any more,” he says. “Still, to me you’ll always be the little kid that would beg me for rides on Huan,” he continues, cracking the ghost of a smile, which makes Tyelpë return a wobbly smile of his own.

His uncle lifts the tent flap and motions him in. The smell of the miracle plant they have found in this new land, that the Sindar call athelas, is strong. Tyelpë has had burns before, he’s still only learning in the forge and accidents happen, but the sight of his father still shocks him.

Atar’s torso and arms are covered in the dressings they always use for burns. Tyelpë has had burn first aid drilled into him as a consequence of the forge - he remembers his father’s words even now. _Under running water, as long as possible, then the least fluffy bandage possible. Your grandfather doesn’t get burned, so he often does not think to warn about heat, but for the rest of us, we need to know how to treat them in case of an accident._

But Tyelpë has never seen anything to the extent of the burns his father currently has. Not even when one of the apprentices had spilt molten metal on his hand. The wound had been more penetrating perhaps but the sheer breadth of his father’s burns takes the air from his lungs. He was clearly cradling the body to his chest even as it burned.

Atar is sat up, bolstered by pillows piled behind him. He does not acknowledge their entrance.

Uncle Turco clears his throat. “Hey, Curvo,” he says, in what Tyelpë recognises as his ‘dealing with frightened animals’ voice. “I brought Tyelpë in to see you.”

Atar looks up at them, but does not speak. Tyelpë waves slightly awkwardly at him, before grasping nervously on to his Uncle’s hand, which is rough and warm and calloused. He gets a reassuring squeeze from him. Tyelpë wants to hug his father but he doesn’t want to hurt him.

“Alright!” says Uncle Turco in a falsely bright voice. “Your dressings need changing, so Tyelpë will help me, as wrapping those can be a two person job sometimes!”

The tent is a large one, tall enough to stand and walk in, but they crouch down next to Atar anyway. Up closer, Tyelpë notices the uneaten and cold bowl of stew that he’d left outside the tent earlier.

Uncle Turco is already unwrapping Atar’s chest, making falsely cheerful chatter as he goes, and Tyelpë is so, so grateful for him and his presence. This silence from his father is unnerving, as he is usually so full of quick wit and sharp words.

Tyelpë knows that the relationship between his father and grandfather was incredibly strong. It was with his grandfather and all his uncles, but his father appears to be dealing with Grandfather’s death very poorly. Not that Tyelpë has much experience with grief and grieving, but even the bright, brittle Uncle Turco is doing better than Atar is.

His uncle motions to him to start unwrapping Atar’s hands, so he busies himself with carefully peeling back the bandages. Mercifully none of the healing tissue comes with them. Uncle Turco notices his hesitation. “We had some issues with that, but he’s a quick healer and these are the smoothest bandages we could find. He’ll scar for sure though.”

From between them, Atar finally speaks. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” he says, quietly.

“Talk back, and I won’t have to,” replies Uncle Turco, neatly tying off Atar’s chest dressings.

The bickering is familiar to Tyelpë and he’s happy that Atar is at least well enough to reply even if he is not fully himself. But the bandage is fully off now, and he can see the way his father’s hands have deep deep burns on both the palms, spreading up his arms. He cannot hold back the gasp that escapes him.

“Yeah, they’re nasty looking,” Uncle Turco says, matter-of-factly. “But, he’s gonna regain full use of ‘em, we think.”

“I _said_ don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Atar says, obviously irritated.

Uncle Turco rolls his eyes before continuing, “Obviously we had a proper healer look over him when he first got them, but they’re healing well enough that we can take care of him on our- Ow!”

Atar has just elbowed Uncle Turco in the stomach. “Stop talking over me! I told you not to!”

“You’re lucky you’re injured, otherwise I’d smack you right back!” Uncle Turco replies.

Tyelpë cannot help but laugh at the pair, who look guiltily up at him. “Look at us,” says Atar in annoyance, “more childish than the actual child here.”

“Well, it’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh in days,” says Uncle Turco, “so we’re clearly doing something right.”

The look on Atar’s face is pained, but it’s better than the blankness that was there when they entered. He sighs. “Come here, Tyelpë.”

Tyelpë gingerly climbs into Atar’s lap, and is enfolded into a careful hug. He is cautious not to lean on his burned chest but allows Atar to control the strength of the embrace to relieve any pressure on the burns.

Tyelpë feels Atar press a kiss to the top of his head. “I’m sorry for making you so worried, Tyelpë,” he says. “You can come in and see me whenever you like.”

Tyelpë sits for a minute, then asks, “If I bring you food, will you eat it?”

He hears Uncle Turco shift and his father sigh again. “Yes, but only if it’s nice,” says Atar. “Not too much green stuff.”

“Picky even now?” his uncle asks, but his tone is warm.

“Yes! There was a weird mushroom in the soup you gave me yesterday and I’m sure it must be poisonous.”

“Really? Ugh, you are _the worst.”_

“Bring me cake to speed the healing.”

“No!”

Tyelpë relaxes finally into Atar’s warmth, and feels exhausted all of a sudden. He lets their banter wash over him as he drifts into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> You’re actually supposed to use clingfilm or similar on burns but they obviously wouldn’t have that.
> 
> If you like this, check out my tumblr at curufins-smile.tumblr.com
> 
> Super awesome art for this can be seen here: http://alackofghosts.tumblr.com/post/165342303802/curufins-smile-has-the-bestworst-ideas


End file.
